


Pain

by waywardFicwriter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Hates Himself, M/M, Mentions of hell, mentions of torture, pre-slash (kinda), will my writing ever stop being so pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardFicwriter/pseuds/waywardFicwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pain never really stopped, did it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this nearly a year ago, but I still kinda like it.

Sometimes, when he's been drinking far too much and he's alone in the motel room, Dean Winchester forgets why he's still alive. He knows there has to be a reason, must be, but as much as he tries, he just can't remember. What he does remember is fire and razors and screaming and the taste of blood in his mouth and how he should still be down there, ripping souls apart until his eyes turn shiny beetle-black and he stops being human.  
  
He thinks about it some more, and all he really remembers is pain. The pain didn't stop when he came off the rack and put others on, not really. It was still there, just a different kind of pain. And after years and years of pain-but-not-pain, there was a blinding light that burned his eyes out over and over again and a sound that shattered his eardrums, and there was a hand like white-hot metal burning into his shoulder, through skin and muscle until it hit bone, branding his body and soul.  
  
The hand gripped him tight and pulled, but Hell wouldn't let go of him. The hand pulled and pulled, stretching his soul to its breaking point, and the light burned out his eyes and the sound pierced through his skull again and again and it didn't _stop_ , not until the chains binding him finally shattered and Hell disappeared in a whirlwind of beating wings and electricity.  
  
Next thing he knew, he was trapped in a small box and there was no air and he couldn't _see_. He scratched and kicked and threw himself against the wooden panel above him, but when it finally cracked open he was buried in an avalanche of dirt. So he spat and coughed and clawed at it, digging upwards with his bare hands, pulling himself up through the earth, lungs burning, throat aching and muscles screaming,  his hands tearing open and ripping out his nails, sweat making dirt cling to him like a second skin.  
  
When he finally broke through the surface and pulled himself out of that hole his lungs were burning and his hands were bleeding and his arms ached like he'd dug his way through solid rock instead of packed earth.  
  
He looks up at the sky, and the sun burns at his eyes like acid. He doesn't close them.  
  
As he lies there in the dirty motel room, staring at the ceiling and wondering why he's there, he thinks that the pain won't ever go away, no matter how long it takes, will it? Heaven or Hell, he'll never be free. He thinks about this and then he laughs, laughs so hard he can't breathe, so hard his lungs ache and it _hurts_.  
  
He laughs and laughs, and doesn't hear the flutter of wings, doesn't notice the angel watching him silently with blue, sorrowful eyes. _"Dean,"_ the angel whispers, and Dean falls silent, almost too silent.  
  
"Cas," Dean says, voice rough and cracking slightly. He closes his eyes and doesn't open them. He doesn't need to see Castiel in order to know he's watching him; those eyes burn into his skin like they're branding him. Like Castiel has branded him before.  
  
Then Dean opens his eyes and turns towards the burning stare, inviting the pain it brings him, like an old friend. In hell he learned how to face pain; not to lessen it, but to control it in the only way he could.  
  
But when he faces Castiel the burning gaze fades away and is replaced by something almost like sadness, almost like...grief. The angel's blue eyes wraps him up in a cooling, calming embrace of sorrow, and Dean weeps because Castiel cannot, should not, but wants to, for Dean.  
  
And Dean is loved by a being who should not love a human soul in this way, but does anyway.  
  
And it hurts.


End file.
